Rewriting history: Immortalizing mortality
by bouj525
Summary: Lexa's cat kills her internet and Lexa ends up reading a story written by Clarke. She realizes they are meant to be together, but also meant to be apart.
1. The first story

**There's a lot of description at first, but it gets better in the second part.**

 **IMPORTANT: TW! Do NOT read if you want a happy ending, because this will not happen. This story is angst from the beginning to the end, with little islands of cute moments in between, but mostly ANGST.**

 **Thank the beta for the absence of mistakes, blame me if there are some left behind.**

* * *

 **The first story**

There are two types of people in this world. Those who are alive and those who are not.

The distinction should be easy. Those who are alive breathe and live, while those who are not simply sleep forever under the ground. Those who are alive have a heartbeat, whereas those who are not have none. It really is a simple equation. If you are alive, you have a heartbeat. If you are not, you don't.

It is a simple, flawed equation.

It does not take into consideration the way thousands of people walk on Earth's surface perfectly healthy but without ever feeling truly alive.

It does not take into consideration the way thousands of people are immortalized long after their passing, their stories never forgotten by those who say their names every day.

It forgets the way thousands of people are dying at the very moment despite having a heartbeat in their chest.

It forgets that life needs death to exist and vice versa.

It forgets the way life is too often intimately intertwined with death.

It's loud.

Too loud. And the sun is bright. Too bright.

It blinds her.

It makes her narrow her eyes until she cannot see anything but a thin line of light coming from her computer screen. Her fingers brush the keyboard gently, performing a symphony as they assemble random letters and give them the power to access magical universes. The steady rhythm of the sound made by her actions echoes on the wall of her living room. She writes quickly without the need to glance down, keeping her eyes on her screen as words appear and characters are brought to life.

She barely takes a break to eat and drink, only leaving the comfort of her chair to rush to her bedroom when she cannot wait any longer. She brushes a lock of golden hair away from her face whenever one dares to block her view. She glances away one millisecond to note a detail she doesn't want to forget. She quickly directs her attention to her screen again.

She takes a pause. Something doesn't satisfy her. The words are not fluid anymore. They don't float peacefully on the blank sheet displayed by her screen, guided by the ryhthm of the story. They sink. They sink and break, and everything is a disaster. She reads a passage that she believes doesn't fit in anymore. She reads it a dozen times, with a different voice in her head every time. She selects the sentences and deletes them. The bottom of the page she is working on is empty again and she has no idea how to let her thoughts out. She looks out of the window, her blue eyes piercing through the orange glow of the sunset.

She used to be able to dream despite being wide awake, but recently, the words seem to have disappeared on her. Her mind is empty with a void of possibilities. She has run out of things to say, of stories to share, of doors to open. She saves her file and turns off her computer. She walks in the empty room and stares at the walls as if they held the secrets to unlocking more ideas. She finds none.

She falls on the couch and closes her eyes. She isn't tired, but she wants to sleep. Her previous sleepless nights are starting to weight on her mind and she can only blame her creativity for it. Her creativity and numerous phone calls from her very insistent friends. She should really stop seeing them. She has spent a tremendous amount of money on food and drinks for the poor college student that she is. Her bank account is reaching the level of no return and she would very much like to avoid it.

Her phone rings.

She lets it ring a few times before she answers. It must be eight o'clock. Raven always calls at eight o'clock with plans to rule the universe. Clarke has learned how to say no, but Raven never skips a day, and the blonde doesn't ask her to stop calling.

They are best friends. They have been ever since Raven's rocket accidentally collided into Clarke's plane during kindergarten playtime. They both had tried to get the other to surrender until they had teamed up to take down a boy's, whose name turned out to be Bellamy, truck. They have been inseparable ever since.

Clarke answers her phone and Raven automatically starts babbling about the important need to get out of her house. The artist stares at her blank canvas as her friend's voice fills her head with tales of adventures. She knows she won't be able to paint either. Her life has been grey for a while.

She absent-mindedly agrees to join Raven at a bar downtown. She closes the door behind her as she glances one more time at her computer. It doesn't matter how hard she wills it to, inspiration doesn't come.

She locks the door and jumps straight into her best friend's world for the night.

It isn't loud anymore. Silence rules as the obscurity of the night welcomes her.

* * *

It's quiet.

Too quiet. And the sky is dark. Too dark.

It blinds her.

It makes her open her eyes as wide as she possibly can until her pupils adapt to the newfound level of luminosity. Her fingers slam on the keyboard violently, repeatedly as she hopelessly tries to make coherent words appear on her screen. She is at war against technology and yet, she seeks to escape her broken reality through a better one made with zeroes and ones. The complete absence of sound coming from her computer tells her what she refuses to accept.

She doesn't even need to glance down to know that her beloved, devilish cat has, once again, tore her internet cable to death.

She grabs her slice of pizza and swallows half of it as she drowns her frustration with a bottle of water. She endlessly waits for a sign of life to appear. She shakes her head in resignation and doesn't bother pushing her hair away from her face. She looks away from the black screen and concentrates her attention on her phone. She might not have data, but she can still read whatever story she has saved in the past.

She doesn't stop once as she dives into the world of the chosen fiction. The words complete each other and every single detail is well thought out. She is surrounded by waves of emotions as the story unravels in her mind, every small piece of the puzzle coming together. She reads the same sentence a hundred times because its beauty cannot be fully grasped in a single try. She selects her favorite sentences and saves them in her soul. She reaches the bottom of the page and quickly slides her finger on her tactile screen to start again with a new sheet.

Not once do her emerald eyes dare to look away from a text full of the one subject she knows best: death.

She is wide awake in the middle of the night, but it feels like she is in a trance, dreaming with her eyes open as she absorbs the essence of the ink. Her mind is overwhelmed by this unknown author's universe. She travels through a thousand different realities within a few minutes and her head is heavy with the contents. She thanks the universe that she once saved this particular file. She finishes the story in one night and bounces off her chair to walk around in her apartment as if her energy couldn't stay in anymore. She loses that energy quickly and needs to steady her breathing more than once.

She falls on the couch and closes her eyes. She is exhausted, but she wants to stay awake as long as possible. She has been sleeping too much recently, spending days and nights in the comfort of her bed, and now she has finally found a decent reason to stay awake. She is buzzing from the creativity that emanates from her phone. She has not felt this way for a long time, trapping herself within the walls of her little castle. She has enough money to travel the world and discover the wonders of her planet, but she knows better than to spend it on those activities. Her bank account needs to remain full should her condition change drastically.

Her phone rings.

She lets it ring a few times before her caller gives up. It doesn't matter what time it is, whether it is the middle of the night or not, she never answers. She has learned to completely ignore any sound coming from her mobile device. She knows who is calling.

Her best friend. Anya has been her best friend ever since her grumpy aunt Indra introduced the two of them during a birthday party. They had immediately become close despite their slight age difference. They have been inseparable ever since.

Lexa ignores the beeping signaling her she has a voicemail. She knows she has many from Anya talking, screaming at her from the distance. She stares at the emptiness of her apartment as she imagines what today's life lesson could be. She knows she won't be able to listen to Anya's voice. She deletes the message only a few seconds after it was left.

She remains in the comfort of her home as she recalls the way bright colors shone through the darkness when the story had pierced through her armor. She glances at her dead computer, judging how long it would take to fix it. She doesn't want to wait.

She activates her mobile data and seeks a stranger's company.

She still believes it is pitch black outside and she doesn't notice the sun appearing on the horizon as she types a virtual message in a bottle.

* * *

The message flies through the air- invisible and inaudible. It reaches its destination quietly, without making a sound, without knowing it is about to change someone's destiny for the better or worse.

It is a wedding invitation, divorces papers, class notes, a love confession, a breaking up farewell. It is the acceptance letter to a prestigious program or a rejection that will affect someone's motivation more than it should have. It is a single word or a million sentences written carefully. It carries the ideas of one to another, fusing two visions into one, mixing universes together to create a whole new one. It breaks loneliness into pieces, eating it alive, letting it no chance to go on.

Written in the perfect way, it allows thoughts and feelings to be shared without ever opening one's mouth, but rather one's soul. It is the end and the beginning. It is the continuation of a relationship or the violent U-turn at the end of a road. It is the glue that holds two people together or an uncovered secret of a terrible betrayal.

It is a letter, a note, a paper airplane born from wires and flashing lights.

It will change your life.

* * *

Clarke is walking.

It is too early in the morning for her to take the bus unless she is ready to wait a long time. She refuses to wait and a mere one hour and a half later, she sees the familiar stairs leading to her apartement.

She unlocks her door and winces at the sound. Her head still hurts from the blasting music of the bar and her throat is hoarse from all the screaming she did. Her legs hurt from standing up too long and she wishes she could sit on the ground and remain there forever. Her feet are killing her. She still takes a well-deserved shower before crashing in her bed. Her worries have gone away, washed away by Raven's vivid enthusiasm.

Clarke closes her eyes and dreams.

She dreams her life isn't as colorless anymore. She dreams she is on the right side of the existence, in the land of the living, fully enjoying it rather than walking by everyone and everything. She dreams she has enough inspiration to write until her fingers cannot stay attached to her hands anymore. She dreams she has enough imagination to make those ideas come to life and take over reality. She dreams she is alive in a way she was a very long time ago.

Her father is there, smiling, laughing, real. He waves at her, begging her to join him. He yells. She cannot hear him. He is too far. She runs. He walks away. She runs faster. He is too far and she cannot reach him. She flies. She reaches him. He smiles. He smells of cologne and home. He takes her in his arms and makes her spin around like he used to when she was young. He doesn't just smell like home. He is home.

He opens his mouth to speak but Clarke doesn't hear a word. It doesn't matter. As long as he is here, it doesn't matter. He sings silent words and Clarke imagines them in her head, remembering his voice. He points towards the distance, the complete void of objects and gestures for Clarke to follow. She does. She follows wherever he goes.

And suddenly she is alone.

And suddenly he is nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, she jolts awake.

Her father is dead and she is alive.

She misses her dream immediately when she remembers where she is, alone in her bedroom, too old to be picked up by her father anymore. She lies awake, her eyes fixing the ceiling on which are glued fluorescent stars. They don't shine anymore. Clarke is rarely in her bedroom, preferring the huge window of her living room to surround her when she writes. She hasn't let them shine for a long time and she doesn't think she ever will again.

It is almost noon. She brings her attention back to her phone as she quickly goes through her emails and notices one in particular that comes from her blog, indicating she has a new personal message waiting to be read. It concerns an older post, something she had written a few months ago.

She enjoys posting some of her texts to the online community. She gets feedback and adjusts her art consequently if she judges it necessary. She does the same whenever she paints something she is proud of. The critics make her better.

She reads the first line, a lump forming in her throat as she notices the length of the message. It is longer than the many others she had received before. She doesn't know why she worries about it, but she feels this one, this specific bundle of words appearing out of nowhere, is different from the past ones.

Maybe it is because of its length.

Maybe it is because of its formal style that makes her wonder what this classy human being could ever want from her very normal ordinary self.

" _Wanheda. I can only hope you will receive this message regarding an older post."_

She is called Wanheda, a word she has invented, on the vast land of the Internet. She is the Commander of Death and her art reflects this side of her. She portrays death in all its forms, through the eyes of many, through a multitude of other colors than simply black. She shares her friend's' life and death with anecdotes and wise lessons. She illustrates the way death is part of the living world without life ever asking it to leave, the way it rules their universe with subtlety and grace, and the way it is feared by most.

She writes in black and white and paints with the colors of melancholia.

She owns death, even if it always wins in the end. She has accepted it and it shows through every sentence she writes.

" _I know I am late to comment on this. I have been without the Internet for a few days. My cat thought my modem's cable would make a good toy. I fear he found it perfect for his taste as nothing is left but a disaster. Despite the flagrant absence of my dear friend Netflix, insomnia found me and I resorted to reading a story I had saved on my phone. It was yours. I finished it in one night."_

She smirks at the thought of a cat being responsible for the discovery of her story. Out of the many reasons she has heard, this one is by far her favorite one.

" _I am writing this message from my phone, using my data, because the thought of not telling you about it made no sense to me. You are gifted."_

She smiles a little more as she goes through each sentence, every little detail, every compliment she feels she does not deserve. It feels like she is reading someone's state of mind and she doesn't know how to react.

The words soothe her wounded soul and she believes whoever took the time and efforts to praise her in such magnificent way deserves a proper answer. She nervously calls out for her best skills in grammar and vocabulary. She can only hope her knowledge matches the one of this mysterious person. She is convinced it won't.

She starts to type an answer despite her doubts.

The message was signed "Lexa" and Clarke writes her first name as well.

Clarke thinks Lexa's name sounds perfect.

She feels like she is doing something important.

She feels important.

She realizes it is the first message in months that isn't tainted with the theme of eternal rest.

* * *

Lexa is running.

The wind is blowing in her hair as she tastes the fresh oxygen from the trees around her. The hills are just high enough for her to work her cardio without feeling exhausted. She marvels at the way her muscles contract as she races through the forest. They stretch and ache in the most pleasurable way. She never wants to slow down. She cannot slow down.

She passes by the most perfect sceneries but she never stops. She has no time to stop. Who knows how long it will take before she can no longer run until her lungs hurt? She keeps her breath steady as she forces her heart to pump more blood through her limbs. She feels invincible, in her own element. She reaches the top of the hill easily and finally allows her body to take a break. Her lungs expand as she fills them with as much air as possible.

The view is breathtaking and leaves her gasping for oxygen more than the miles she just ran do. The cliff is high and Lexa almost believes that it would be possible for humans to fly if they jumped from this specific place. She stares at the city below, the huge buildings appearing as tall as her thumb. She doesn't hear the familiar city noises and she is grateful for the silence. It allows her to listen to the way her body reacts to the efforts.

She watches as birds dance in front of her over the emptiness. They own the sky with an ease Lexa can only hope for. They live a careless life Lexa can only dream of. She stays at the top for a few minutes before she starts heading back. She has no time to waste.

She starts to jog, but something feels wrong as if her legs didn't obey her anymore. She tries to increase her speed but it slows down instead, until she is walking at a snail's pace.

She frowns.

She tries to force her body to move faster, to run again just like she was doing a few minutes ago, but it doesn't listen to her anymore. It isn't hers anymore. She feels weak, tired, exhausted, completely drained of her energy. She can no longer feel the air entering her lungs and she suffocates. She falls to the ground, dirt scratching her knees as she opens her mouth to let the air in.

And suddenly, she is alone.

And suddenly, the trees are nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, her eyes open and she wakes up in her bed, immobilized by her covers.

It feels like an eternity since she has taken a walk in a park and she sadly realizes it is the truth.

She curses. She sighs. She resigns and accepts reality. She wishes she could do something other than constantly miss the feeling of running, but she is too aware of the way she has difficulty breathing just by simply walking at a normal pace. Even jogging is not an option for her.

Going outside is a chore now.

She struggles to climb the stairs back to her door whenever she goes out to buy food or supplies. Half of the time, she needs to take a break despite the small number of stairs. She needs to be mindful of the distance she has to walk, calculating how long it would take her and adjusting her speed accordingly. She needs to bring her phone every time, fully charged. She needs cash money in case she has to take a cab. She needs to think of everything. She no longer goes out for fun, she plans every single excursion she does.

She would give anything to be able to go to the park, but the distance is too great and the bus ride is too long for her to risk the journey. She could take a taxi, but why would she? She has accepted her fate. She can't go to the park as often as she used to. She can't mourn nature forever so she has moved on.

She reaches for her phone, a rare aspect of her previous life that has remained unchanged. It glows to life as she reads the answer she has gotten in reply to her previous message.

She smiles automatically as she reads the familiar "dear Lexa" at the top of the page. It is the third message she receives and she doesn't regret her decision to reach out to this stranger.

She reads the words that slightly make her day better. Their conversation has shifted from the story to themselves. They share little bits of what makes them the people they are and Lexa tries to remember all of them.

She has a terrible memory and she keeps writing notes on scattered post-its.

She keeps losing the post-its and somehow remembers everything about Clarke.

She remembers the content of the first answer, just as formal as her message, but with a thin layer of humor. The second message had been more personalized since the ice was broken. There was no need for extravagant words and impressive vocabulary anymore, and yet Lexa had still included a few uncommon words to impress the writer. They had shared random facts about themselves, mixing sarcasm and just enough jokes to test the other's sense of humor. Soon enough, as it is almost always the case on this platform, time zones and distance had come up.

Lexa remembers the moment she had realized Clarke lived in the same time zone. She had smiled widely, relieved to know they wouldn't have to wait hours before getting an answer from one another. She had mentioned it to Clarke and had received a hilarious answer about how they probably still lived lightyears away from each other.

Lexa had agreed.

Until now.

Clarke had directly stated the name of the city she lived it.

Lexa now disagrees.

They don't live millions of miles away from each other. In the grand scale of the universe, they are cosmic neighbors. She is speechless.

She knows what to say before she even types it. The words just flow through her mind like the violent current of a waterfall.

" _Clarke, I know you said you come from outer space. I believe you. But somehow, your words have reached me across this immense distance and that is an incredible situation. I also believe that the world is small, tiny even. It is impossible to ignore that on the grand scale of the universe, we live only centimeters away, wherever we are on the planet."_

She wonders if she's taking it a step too far.

She thinks that even if she is, it doesn't matter.

She has nothing to lose and she wants to test the limits of this insane coincidence.

" _There are hundreds of thousands of people currently writing stories. There are thousands of websites made to share those tales with the rest of us. There is an infinity of languages, of genres, of writing styles that I enjoy more than others. A million possibilities could have occured instead. But out of all of them, because one night my cat murdered my internet connection, because insomnia decided to make me its puppet, because I had my phone fully charged and next to me, I resorted to reading a story I had saved, and among the many choices I had, it ended up being yours. You, Clarke, who lives probably less than twenty miles from me."_

She signed with her full name this time. She won't waste the opportunity.

She feels like something important is happening.

She knows something important is happening.

This message brings life to her dull routine.

* * *

Waiting is annoying.

No one enjoys waiting. In a society where everything is rushed and everyone is forced to do things faster and better than anyone else, waiting is a handicap. The definition of waiting has been manipulated by people to mean that time is being wasted. Productivity rhymes with high speed and quantity rather than meticulous and quality. Effectivity rhymes with how fast one finishes a task.

No one wishes to wait for money to fill their bank account, for popularity to embrace their name, for a victory to be celebrated. Everyone secretly wishes they could snap their fingers and get everything they have ever asked for, from the expensive objects such the latest most performing car, to priceless concepts such as love itself. It is the era of the immediate results.

The world has forgotten that waiting has one important utility. It makes the results even more appreciated, more meaningful, more precious. It makes the goal worth it.

Right now, the wait is endless.

 _Tell me about you._

They both send this question thinking it is a good one.

They both receive the question and struggle to know what to answer.

They both think this is the worst question humanity has ever come up with.

What can they say to someone they don't know?

What can they say that is personal, but not too much, that is interesting, funny, unique, but just enough so the other person can relate to it as well? How can they convey just enough of their personality so that the other person stays around to learn more without running away? The balance is hard to find and they can't choose the right words, the right sentences, the perfect anecdotes. How much is too much? What makes them interesting? What makes them stand out from the crowd of eight billions of people?

Lexa wonders if she should tell Clarke about how she feels breathless half the time, how she found her story like a wave of fresh air filling her lungs, how she was so exhausted that night and somehow, those words were worse than insomnia, keeping her mind wide awake until the sun rose in the sky.

Clarke wonders if she should tell Lexa about how she feels lost half the time, how this long message arriving from nowhere was like finally arriving at her final destination after an endless walk, how she was trapped between this reality and the next one and somehow, those words were enough to tie her up steadily to the right one.

They type the same message without ever knowing it. They start with their occupation, their age, where they come from. They start with the most general information they can find about themselves. They don't bother describing what they look like. In an implicit agreement, they know this will be the last message on this personal blog. The next conversation will occur by text messages.

They enjoy the same things, they speak sarcasm, they share the same sense of humor they have a similar passion for food, they are both embarrassingly in love with tv shows and more importantly, they both sound like they don't want this conversation to ever end. Lexa mentions her cat and her interests in politics, philosophy and law. Clarke writes about her daily life and her interest in arts, travel and mysteries.

Neither Clarke nor Lexa share their personal contacts with strangers. It is against what they believe to be safe. They have always been careful, staying anonymous, faceless on the internet. Even after they agree to give away their names, they both know a certain limit has been reached. Who knows who the other person truly is? They have heard so many terrible stories about meeting strangers in real life.

But it is different this time. They are blind and they can't see the limit anywhere.

They cross the line without ever realizing, their answers merging again as they both sign with their phone numbers.

The wait is endless, but it is worth it.

* * *

Clarke is a survivor.

Clarke has lived through her boyfriend's shitty behavior. He cheated on her and became someone she did not recognize before he left her without any warning. He had changed her perception of love and relationships, making the part of her heart which once believed in princes and princesses and perfect endings, die.

She has survived her father's death, the hardest thing she has ever done. She still remembers the way her mother had whispered the words, her voice trembling and barely audible as she fought to remain strong in front of her daughter. It still haunts her, but not as much as the way her mother transformed into a ghost soon after.

Clarke has survived this too, the loss of her mother, of the woman who used to be so admirable, now reduced to a robotic machine performing surgeries days and nights. The blonde learned how to take care of herself without relying on anyone.

And Wells. Clarke has mourned him too, her second childhood best friend, even though he is still alive. He is still gone, part of an internship in another country too far for them to communicate more often than a few messages every month.

Clarke has been through many kind of deaths and perhaps it is why she feels so attracted by this mysterious concept, why she feels the strong need to write and paint about it, to talk about it whenever her friends agree to listen to this somber subject, to dream about it even if she never asks to.

Death is omnipresent in her life. She has become death, in a way.

She has been through so much and yet, nothing prepares her for the tsunami of anxiety that drowns her soul as she walks toward Lexa's house. She is overwhelmed by the thought that maybe accepting Lexa's invitation was a mistake. Maybe Lexa just wanted to be polite and Clarke, like the air-headed person she can be, accepted an offer that wasn't even one in the first place.

It doesn't matter anymore.

She is already in front of the door, her heartbeat betraying her controlled apparent demeanor as she rings the doorbell. She thinks, maybe this is a bad idea. She thinks, maybe Lexa won't answer. She thinks, the way they started interacting with one another is too special, too crazy, too impossible for them to let the story go to waste.

The door opens and she forgets she has ever been waiting. In fact, she forgets everything about the perfect speech she initially had in mind. No word, no painting, no sculpture could have ever prepared her to meet the enigmatic Lexa Woods, whose messages have been part of her daily life for many weeks. And while the words came easily when hidden by a screen, being confronted directly by the other woman turns her rhetorical talents to dust.

Lexa Woods is real. She isn't a robot. She isn't a computer. She isn't a possible murderer or a total scam. She isn't a stranger anymore. She is a gorgeous woman with eyes that strike Clarke like lightning. She welcomes the blonde with a commanding but reassuring posture. Her mouth is closed and she is breathing hard through her nose as if she had arrived at the door after a light jog. Clarke finds her beautiful.

She refuses to be the idiot who stares without saying anything, but Lexa still beats her to the first sentence.

"You're one who translates ordinary ideas to wonders for the soul."

It is a simple sentence, almost surreal, almost as if Lexa wasn't the one pronouncing it. It feels like Clarke has waited so long to hear Lexa's voice that she can't quite believe it is happening.

Lexa's voice is a song and Clarke wants to replay it until she memorizes its every note.

"You're the one who elevates an ordinary writer to the status of an artist from above."

Clarke's voice is a movie and Lexa wants to watch it until she memorizes its every image.

Lexa nods at the answer as if she secretly approves the way Clarke answers her. She is sure Clarke doesn't need any approval regardless.

"I am merely stating the facts," Lexa says as she steps aside to invite Clarke in.

The place is spotless and Clarke has no doubt it has been this way for a long time. It feels strange to be here, invited to such a private place. She had expected their first meeting to be somewhere else, outside, in a public place so they wouldn't feel threatened by the close proximity or awkwardness. But Lexa had insisted, luring her with promises of excellent meals and magical desserts. Judging by how great it smells, Clarke knows she won't regret her decision.

Clarke barely takes two steps towards the living room before she trips on something and falls to the floor ungraciously. She groans as a hand reaches for hers, helping her up. She meets the mischievous expression of Lexa and glances at the small figure sitting next to her. A white and light brown cat is purring, proud of its latest victim.

"I'm guessing he's the one who chewed your modem cable to death?"

"You would be right," Lexa nods.

Clarke stands and looks down at the furry demon licking his paws innocently as if he hadn't almost attempted to indirectly murder her a few seconds ago.

"Thank you for killing your master's internet," she smiles brightly, ignoring the pain from her fall.

She glances at Lexa and winks playfully. It is a bold move, but nothing she judges past the limits of what is socially acceptable when meeting someone for the first time. Lexa remains in control of the tiny storm raging in her brain. Clarke is just as fascinating and intriguing as her stories, perhaps even more, and she wants to discover everything.

"His name is Titus."

Clarke looks up and down the small feline silhouette, trying to figure out how the name came to be. She finds no reason and Lexa answers before the question is even asked.

They don't need words to communicate with each other and they are only starting to find out just how true this statement is.

"My best friend named him when I had him six years ago. He would sleep all day on most of the pieces of furniture, prevent me from doing my work and wait for me to leave the house so he could destroy everything. He would play the victim and then wait for to be forgiven. She found him useless and quite problematic. She thought the name would fit well."

Clarke smirks at the thought of Lexa being dominated by a poor cat.

"He is not a poor cat," Lexa warns, reading Clarke's thoughts for the second time in a row. "He once slept on me and almost suffocated me until the point of no return."

Clarke laughs at the joke and Lexa does too, as if it was the only thing they could ever do.

Lexa almost forgets how truly close to death she had been.

"He's not that useless, now, is he?"

"Maybe not," Lexa agrees. "But only maybe."

Clarke nods. She wants to prove Lexa wrong.

They take a seat on the small balcony in the backyard and a small wind caresses their faces. Lexa's house has the perfect view of the Ark River. She can see everything that is going on and she loves it. It feels like she guards this place despite never being directly involved, like she will be the first one to know if something goes wrong.

Two glasses are already waiting for them and Clarke swallows her nervousness away. The cold drink washes her doubts away as she wonders if she can find a subject worth talking about.

She remembers the little pieces of information she has given Lexa and recalls the reaction they had gotten. She knows Lexa shares the same passion for food and words, raging controversial debates and light comedy shows, but she would like to learn more. Her artistic side wishes to know exactly what colors she would have to use if she ever had to paint her, what metaphor to write if she ever had to describe her, what tools to choose if she ever had to sculpt her.

She wants to know what makes Lexa immortal in someone's memory.

She wonders if Lexa has been touched by death yet, or if she has been spared from this destiny for now.

Lexa looks at her the same way.

As if they both are scared of what to say, what to ask, what to know.

As if they are both painfully aware of the amount of secrets they can learn about one another, while knowing too well that some secrets are better to remain buried.

Lexa is calm. She controls her body but she cannot do the same with her mind. She seeks the perfect question to ask a brilliant mind like Clarke's, never realizing that the blonde is simply content to be sitting right next to her. She searches for the greatest question and this time, it is Clarke who is faster to speak.

The blonde has asked her brain for an original question, one that is not necessarily common, one that is different front all the boring ones people usually ask. She wants a question to portray her interest in knowing Lexa without sounding like they are having a date.

"If you had thirty seconds to make an impression on someone, what would you say?"

It is an innocent question in Clarke's mind, but the moment the words are out to be heard, the artist realizes how loaded her sentence actually is. It is meant as "in general, what would you say about yourself", but it sounds a bit too close to saying directly to Lexa : "Impress me." It sounds a bit too close to saying "make an impression on me."

Clarke shrugs mentally. As if Lexa ever needed to impress her more than she already did. She should be the one trying to impress her. It would probably take a lifetime, but Clarke finds the idea of spending that much time around Lexa quite appealing.

Lexa frowns as she thinks of a response. She wants her answer to be personalized. She wants her answer to fit the person Clarke is and everything they have exchanged so far. She wants to make this woman care and she has no idea where this almost primal need comes from.

She builds a perfect answer to this question because something within her is screaming that she truly wants to impress Clarke. She thinks of Clarke as an artist, a poet, a painter, a musician, a prodigy with words, and she wonders what she could ever say that would be enough to impress her.

She is so busy trying to find the right answer that she doesn't notice Clarke is already hypnotized by her simple presence.

"I can be the words you need, the prose you look for, the colors you seek when it is dark outside. I will be the pen for you to write with, the parchment for you to ensure that your phrases remain out of time's reach, the paint for you to use when the world becomes nothing but a vast blank canvas."

The silence is not enough to hide Clarke's pounding heart. It threatens to beat out of her chest and the blonde fights to keep it inside, to keep her appearance calm and in control. She manages to do it, barely. She cannot hide the pink color from decorating her cheeks.

Lexa refuses to look her way. She hopes she didn't say too much. She fears looking at Clarke will confirm her thoughts, but when she glances up after many seconds, she is welcomed by two sparkling blue eyes.

"That is beautiful."

Lexa thinks Clarke is a fool if she thinks her words were beautiful. She thinks Clarke is magnificent. She thinks Clarke's work is sensational. She thinks that whatever Clarke decides to say to make an impression, it isn't needed. The blonde has already left an astounding one on her.

"You're beautiful," she lets out and Clarke's eyes shine with the stars of the entire universe.

She waits for Clarke to speak her mind.

And when the artist does, it isn't to give Lexa her answer to the same question. It is to ask another one.

"Do you really like the way I write?"

The tone is hesitant, insecure as if believing that Lexa could ever admire her is an impossible task. Clarke has always been terribly hard on herself.

Lexa thinks it is a tragedy, the way Clarke sounds incredibly vulnerable when she has so much to offer and receive. She wishes Clarke's confidence didn't hang only by a thread. She wants to give Clarke an endless speech about the beauty behind her stories, but she can only resume her thoughts to a small sentence.

"You're special."

The words have nothing magical, but the tone, heartfelt and impossibly delicate, makes Clarke believe in Lexa more than anyone else.

Clarke suddenly believes she is a unique kind of special because Lexa says she is.

Without hesitating, Clarke speaks her mind, gives her own answer to Lexa. The words flow in her soul as if they had been waiting to be pronounced since she was born. It feels as if she is singing a song she spent hours memorizing. It is far from the general answer she initially thought she would give. It is meant to make an impression on Lexa and no one else.

"I know enough about you to write a single sentence. I want to discover enough to write a novel. And then, I want to learn enough so that I can rewrite history itself to show the world what a miracle it is that you exist. But I don't want you to be an open book. I want to observe, to explore. I want to take as much time as possible. I may be special, but you must be extraordinary."

None of the rest matters.

Clarke waits for an answer that she isn't sure she wants to hear.

Lexa waits for the right words to come back to her.

They both think they've been waiting a lot more since they started talking to each other.

"Did you prepare that answer before asking me the question?" Lexa narrows her eyes suspiciously.

Clarke smirks and shakes her head shakes her head sideways. She tries not to show how proud she is of her answer and fails.

"Your talent with words knows no limits," Lexa whispers.

Clarke believes it is simply because Lexa portrays the best inspiration she has had in a long time.

Their conversation takes a new path, a different one.

They interact in a way they haven't been while chatting together. There are hints to dozens of possibilities, in the way they speak, the way they act, the way they simply look at the other. They ask questions they wouldn't have asked in other circumstances and they play with the answers to make it more personal than they should.

It is a cat and mouse game and they have no idea which role they play, exchanging the masks every few minutes.

One second, Clarke tries to subtly ask Lexa on a date. The next one, Clarke mentions her ideal day and all Lexa wants is to make it happen, and the blonde realizes a bit too late that she probably won't be the one organizing their first official date.

One minute, Lexa wishes to know Clarke's biggest dream, and the next one, she is the one babbling about her false ambitions, forgetting about the many obstacles in her way.

She remembers reality a bit too late, but she keeps her cheerful tone because Clarke is looking at her like the word "impossible" doesn't exist anymore.

Clarke shares her goals regarding her arts, her life in general. She speaks as if everything will come true and she even starts to believe in her own words. Lexa seems to believe in miracles and Clarke suddenly does too.

Many times, they laugh too hard and too long, and Lexa finds herself having trouble regaining her normal breathing.

Clarke never asks questions and simply waits for the worst to pass.

One moment later, and two bites into the main course, Clarke asks what Lexa would cook if she had to impress someone with her skills. Lexa makes the situation slightly backfires by asking Clarke what her favorite meal is instead of answering directly to the question.

They find themselves sharing even more in common and when they reach a disagreement, they both yearn to know about the other's perception.

Clarke loses the game and Lexa gloats at the way they get along in perfect harmony despite the fun competition.

They lose track of time, sharing silly anecdotes and brushing heavy subjects. They flirt and it is undeniable that they both encourage the other to do so. They talk about perfect scenarios and pretend they won't memorize it for future references. They mention their favorite songs and movies, books and hobbies, colors and meals, and they both secretly keep the information safe in the corner of their mind. They share stories about their lives and Lexa finds Clarke even more charming than before, and Clarke finds Lexa magnetizing.

Despite the few differences between them, they feel at ease.

Despite it being their first meeting, they feel as if they are old friends reacquainting.

As the evening comes to an end, Clarke asks Lexa to offer her a secret.

She asks for something that not many people know, something precious, something raw and real and perhaps even ugly. Something that matters. Something terrible so they can get past it and focus on the more positive aspects afterwards.

She isn't sure if it is a good idea, but she asks anyway because she is convinced nothing can ruin this day, not even the most terrible secrets. And she would rather know about those sooner than later, before she risks being hurt by the truth.

Lexa requires for one first and Clarke gives in because she feels that refusing something Lexa asks would be considered a crime.

"My father died five years ago and it feels like it happened yesterday."

Clarke's voice doesn't waver anymore when she says it. She talks about it casually, but Lexa sees right through her. She notices the little girl who misses her father more than anything and anyone. She also sees the woman who has learned to live without him.

She wants to gift Clarke with a secret too, but she is afraid its weight will shatter their amazing meeting. She tries to find a revelation other than the obvious one, but none comes to her mind.

She remembers the night she spent awake, reading Clarke's masterpiece, the subject of death being displayed in a thousand different ways. She hopes Clarke will be able to see past the words, to believe in some sort of sick joke. Clarke's arts are all about death, but it doesn't mean Lexa is ready to become part of the exhibit. Still, she takes the plunge.

Because if Clarke would rather not be part of it, Lexa wishes to know now and not when her heart is at stake.

"I'm dying."

She doesn't add details. She waits for Clarke to make a decision. Her voice doesn't tremble anymore when she says it. She reveals her raw truth like one would name its favorite song, without giving it too much importance, but Clarke sees right through her. And suddenly, flashes of Lexa taking long and deep breaths, of Lexa struggling to breathe correctly, pass through her mind heavy with meaning.

Lexa doesn't add details and Clarke doesn't ask for more.

Clarke isn't sure if she wants to know more today, but her admiration for Lexa only reaches higher levels. Maybe she should be scared of the implications of this small sentence, but she isn't. She owns death. It doesn't scare her.

"I will call you," Clarke promises as she leaves.

Lexa breathes a little easier.

Lexa is a survivor.

She has lived through her first love departing this world.

Costia was full of hope and life, and Lexa sometimes dreams that she has never left the land of living. They had only been children when they first met, but the connection has been instantaneous. Their relationship had bloomed from shy friends to passionate lovers within months and Lexa had thought that despite her young age, her soul had been born to fall in love with Costia. All it took was three seconds to shatter this utopia in millions of pieces, one fateful night during which Costia and her family were hit by a drunk driver.

Lexa survived the loss of her first love, but it was only the beginning of her misery.

Lexa had survived the crisis following her parents' divorce and her uncle Gustus' suicide only a few months later. That time, she knew not to be surprised when all hell broke loose. She knew even the best situations could reach their end. She knew what to expect. She cried at the funeral but never again until the most recent blow.

The diagnosis hit her from all sides. The prognosis burnt her down to ashes. The treatment weakened her and the side effects were nearly enough to obliterate her motivation to live. And still, by some kind of miracle, she has found a way to keep walking, to keep her head up, to let the air fill her wounded lungs in adversity.

She has accepted the fact that she would die earlier than the average person did. She has prepared herself.

She will not fall in war without fighting with every ounce of energy she can extract from her body, but when the time comes, she will be ready.

She thinks she already is.

She doesn't realize she is not.

She closes the heavy door behind Clarke, her breath already short from the effort it takes.

She feels that the artist walking down the stairs is the same kind of person as her: a survivor.

Clarke and Lexa have been surviving for so long and the same message of respect is shared as they lock eyes one last time through the window. But it doesn't matter what monsters they defeated, what wars they dominated, what territories they conquered.

They have been defeated by the simple way their eyes met and refused to ever look away. It is their first meeting only and yet, there is one thing they are sure of.

Clarke believes she could fall in love with Lexa.

Lexa believes she could fall in love with Clarke.

* * *

They don't see each other a lot, but Clarke doesn't break her promise. She finds Lexa too interesting to fear whatever truth hides behind her previous words.

She calls Lexa as soon as she gets home because she doesn't believe in the "three days rule". She thinks it is a waste of time to force herself to not contact someone she likes because expectations tell her to. She wants to hear Lexa's voice.

It takes two months before they see each other again, still at Lexa's place per her request. The months that never end, they call them. Sixty-two days during which they kept thinking about each other without even being aware of it.

It shows in the way Lexa finds herself cooking Clarke's favorite meal twice, and in the way the blonde realizes too late that she has been painting all month with the brunette's favorite song on repeat. It shows in the way Lexa watches Clarke's favorite shows despite not finding them particularly interesting, and In the way the artist sees her new inspiration in every place she goes.

It shows in the way Clarke's dreams about her father are replaced by vague images of Lexa.

It shows in the way Lexa's shortness of breath is more often caused by thinking about Clarke than by the sickness betraying her body

Their calls are short, but multiple. They contact each other for no reason at all, to talk about the weather or to share about something from their day. Their conversations during the day are joyful and full of optimism, and Clarke believes this is what she wants to do for the rest of her life. Their talks at night are mysterious and glamorous, and Lexa feels like she wouldn't mind living in the darkness for the rest of her days.

They test the limits of how late they can stay up to talk together and often wake up the next day with a dead battery by their side, their phones still pressing against their face.

They always talk too much even when their answers become completely irrelevant. They always try too hard to impress the other, as if they were built this way. They always realize a bit too late that it isn't necessary.

Lexa repeats Clarke's name many times and it makes the blonde chuckle. When Clarke asks her about it, the taller woman says it is because she has trouble remembering names and she doesn't want to make a mistake.

Lexa's favorite animal is a raccoon and Clarke's is a lion.

Lexa's love for food can only be matched by Clarke's lust for drawing.

Lexa's slight boldness when it comes to feelings complements Clarke's hesitant behavior.

Lexa loves running, the forest, the lake, camping. If reincarnation exists, she believes she has lived a thousand lives in the wildness. She believes her spirit will not go through to heaven or hell, but rather to a tree, where she will live for many more centuries.

Clarke loves that she is privy to those little facts and tries to ignore the hopeless tone in Lexa's voice as she speaks.

They give away enough information for Clarke to write her novel, but she doesn't mention it. She wants more and she is willing to give just as much.

She finds beauty is everything Lexa is, everything she does, everything she isn't and doesn't do.

She realizes she can contact Lexa anytime of the day and night, and somehow get an answer within minutes. She hopes Lexa gets enough rest but she doesn't dare to ask.

They always get along. They never run out of things to say and when they think they do, one of them finds just the perfect sentence to make the conversation go on and on until one of them gets busy.

Lexa is the first one Clarke thinks about when she wakes up and the last person on her mind as she struggles to send one last message with her eyes closed.

They always laugh too much and Clarke listens to Lexa's shaky breath too many times, wondering but never worrying.

She never asks questions and Lexa never elaborates.

* * *

 **Only two parts in this short story.**


	2. The last story

**TW: See first part.**

* * *

 **The last story**

When they meet again, the awkwardness is gone, replaced by the memories of many phone calls since their last face to face conversation, replaced by longing glances and ambiguous touches as they pretend it means nothing.

Clarke hasn't forgotten how beautiful Lexa is. She still remains speechless when the door opens and her familiar muse welcomes her.

Clarke knows, the moment she steps in, where the cat will be and how to avoid tripping again.

She trips on his toy instead and stumbles onto Lexa.

She loves the way Lexa catches her, the warmness from being wrapped in her arms, the faint scent of spices that tells her there is probably an excellent meal waiting for them. She melts into Lexa's sudden embrace because it feels better than she had thought it would. It lasts two seconds and Clarke feels like it is too much and not enough at the same time.

"Sorry," she mumbles as she takes a step back, resisting the urge to purposely take a wrong step so she can be close to Lexa again.

She is far from sorry. She is the complete opposite of sorry.

The sudden proximity takes Lexa by surprise and her green eyes hardly hide her newfound interest. She pretends everything is fine and leads Clarke to the balcony one more time. She is painfully aware of the way Clarke's breath on her skin felt like a burning forest fire.

She wonders how it feels to burn alive as Clarke wonders how many times she can pretend to be a tad too clumsy.

"Tell me a story," Lexa asks as they finish their meal after a casual conversation about the daily news.

Clarke knows something is different, as if their conversations across the distance had set the tone of their interactions. They leave the lighter subjects for phone calls and text messages and seek the heavy ones when they are together. They both aren't sure if it is a great way to proceed, but they don't mention it.

"What kind of story?"

"Why do you write about death?"

Lexa has nothing but curiosity in her eyes.

"Because it is the most unknown subject we inevitability have to face," Clarke says softly. "We don't know anything about it, but we are told to accept it and to forgive it. We go through life thinking we are living, but really, we are simply walking toward our final days. We aren't living fully until we face death. We don't realize how precious life is until it is threatened directly by death. We must die so we can live. That is the message I am trying to convey."

Lexa wonders if Clarke has died.

"You only write about your friends."

"They inspire me the most."

"I have read and seen your art. Every piece of them. Your portraits of death are torturously accurate and the words you use are meticulously chosen to shock the majority. Tell me about your stories, about yours, about the different kinds of death you witnessed and the way you found your way back to life. Tell me about why you wrote them the way you did."

Clarke turns her chair so it faces Lexa's directly.

She has so many things she wants to ask but Lexa's gentle expression convinces her to wait a little bit more.

She wonders if they both live a bit too close to death to fully appreciate life.

"Start with Raven," Lexa whispers with a questionning tone.

Clarke obeys. She is sure Lexa has her stories remembered already.

"The earthquake came out of nowhere. It was the end of a perfect day. We were just walking home from school. The road we were walking on collapsed and Raven indirectly died the moment she got trapped and the paramedics told her she would permanently need a brace to walk. She dreamed of being an astronaut. She mourned her past and her future at the same time. It took a while, but she found her way back. She has always been incredibly independent and she thought losing her leg would make her rely on people too much. She still hates the brace but she qualifies it as the annoying friend she can't get rid of because she needs it to go through life."

Clarke says the words and Lexa absorbs them. The green eyed woman knows the fear of losing her independence too much. She already relies too much on pills and medicine and science to get through her life. She used to climb trees and dream about running through the world without ever slowing down.

Now she is trapped in her town, in her house, in her body.

She wants to ask Clarke to be trapped with her, just a moment so she doesn't accidentally lock herself alone for eternity.

"Tell me about Octavia."

"She's an adventurer. She and Lincoln, her boyfriend, they wanted to surpass themselves. They travelled to the most dangerous places on the planet because adrenaline was the only drug they needed. They were trapped by rebels in a foreign country. Octavia escaped. Lincoln was abducted and tortured, and when he came back, he was never the same. She experienced death by losing him. He was still alive, but he was so different. He couldn't change to the person he used to be by himself so she never left his side. They healed. They built themselves back together and Octavia… she's stronger now."

Lexa nods. She believes in healing, in supporting each other. She knows she is doing wrong by refusing Anya's help, but she wants her best friend to be spared of the pain she is suffering from. The thought of Anya seeing her at her worst hurts more than the way her chest burns whenever she takes a breath too deep.

She misses her best friend and she is the only one to blame.

"Tell me about Bellamy."

"He got arrested and thrown in jail. He's stupid but he's the best brother one can ask for. He hacked important websites and files when he learned Octavia was in danger. He paid with his freedom and that caused him to somehow die too. Last time I saw him, he said he would never regret doing it because it gave him confirmation that his little sister was doing great. He always does too much for her when she doesn't need him to help. He's dumb, but they are family. They can't survive without each other. When he gets out, Octavia promised she would kick his ass. I think it's the only reason she wants him out."

Lexa grins at the thought. She has no idea who these people are, but the way Clarke speaks about them, as if they each matter more than her own life, inspires her. They are a family, all of them, whether they share blood or not. She has no doubt that Clarke would go through hell for her friends.

She strangely fears Clarke would commit suicide for her friends if she felt it was needed. Maybe not the actual jumping off a bridge kind, but a different kind of death. She would sacrifice herself, her soul, her humanity for them.

"Tell me about Jasper."

This time, Clarke's expression becomes somber.

"Raven, Octavia and Bellamy, they all forgave what happened to them. They all forgave life for putting them through the worst times. Jasper hasn't yet."

Clarke sighs.

"I'm not sure if he has come back from death yet."

She pauses. She thinks of the right words. She finds none.

"Her name was Maya. The restaurant she worked at caught on fire and she didn't make it."

She pauses again. She thinks of the right words. There is none.

But Lexa's hand quietly slips inside hers and the words come back.

The contact shocks her. It is a CPR machine for her inspiration.

"He was with her when it happened. He wanted to surprise her for their anniversary and when he arrived, he just found her body full of blood and burn marks. It has been months but I don't think he will recover soon. He's still in shock. He has nightmares every night. When I last saw him, he refused to talk to me or Monty, his best friend. He's in love with her ghost. He can't let go. I don't think he ever will and I don't expect him to. I just don't know if he will make it out alive."

Lexa remains silent. She knows this situation too well. It had taken her years to stop seeing Costia everywhere she went. It had taken her years to talk about Costia without crying herself to sleep.

She hasn't met Jasper, but she wishes him the best. She knows he still has a long road to travel. She has been there, she has left a part of herself in memory of Costia, but still, she had managed to walk back to the surface.

She asks herself why it is that she has so much in common with Clarke's friends.

The air is heavy around them and neither of them cares

Lexa believes Clarke is stronger than anyone she knows. It makes her more admirable than ever. It makes Clarke radiate beauty, the purest version of it, the one that has been worn down by life and its thorns yet still manages to shine brighter every second.

"He will make it," Lexa murmurs. "He will make it and he will realize that love is weakness."

Clarke frowns.

"Love? Weakness?"

The blonde unconsciously squeezes Lexa's hand. If It is weakness, what are they holding hands for, she secretly asks herself.

"It is."

"So you're saying he should just stop caring?

"It is a way to see it."

Clarke shrugs. She respects Lexa for everything that she is, but she doesn't agree with this. Love can't be weakness, not when it is the only thing, the only feeling that triumphs over every disaster, every catastrophe, every phenomenon humanity faces everyday.

"No way. He's Jasper. He cares. He was born to care, just like me, just like everyone I know. You can't deny who you are. He's Jasper…"

Lexa nods in agreement. Just because she believes love is weakness doesn't mean it is easy for her to act according to that belief. She knows because she feels she cares too much about Clarke already when she shouldn't. She notices the little details that make Clarke the imperfect perfection that she is and she wishes she didn't. She longs for Clarke's presence despite being so used to being alone. She already is under Clarke's spell and she cannot escape.

She feels weak and she hopes she isn't.

She wonders what will happen if she is.

"You speak of death as if it is the start of life in your stories, but you portray it as the end of life in your drawings," Lexa points out.

"We don't really know what there is after death. I like looking inside subjects no one will ever truly understand. There are no right or wrong answers. There isn't even truth to the question of death. There is only an endless quest. I enjoy exploring its different sides, but who knows what really happens when we die. It's probably nothing."

Lexa prays Clarke is wrong.

She begs the world to allow her to have something after she is gone because if not, it makes no sense. It would make no sense for her to have to go through life, through joy and sadness, through the little difficulties and little moments of bliss, just to have it taken away and replaced with emptiness at the end of the countdown.

It would make no sense for her to live as if she had everything to lose when in fact she has never had anything at all since the very beginning.

It would make no sense for her to try and race the concept of time itself if her loss was the only possible issue.

It would make no sense for her to question her feelings towards Clarke because in the end, would they even matter?

The answer is loud and clear. Yes.

"Tell me about you," Clarke asks.

The silence is louder than ever and Lexa breaks it with a cough.

Clarke only notices now how often Lexa coughs.

She is convinced it is not because of allergies.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why did you ask me those questions?"

"I want to know about you. I want to know because you look like you are going to explode if you don't share your stories with the world. And I know writing is different than speaking. I love listening to you because you can't see yourself, but you have this look in your eyes, like happiness has found its home in this particular shade of blue."

It is true, but it is also a partial truth.

Lexa wants to know about Clarke because she feels it is a shame not everyone knows about the artist. She wants the whole world to hear Clarke's stories, to be in awe in front of her art. She wants to know all about Clarke so she can share it with other realities when she leaves this one.

She wants to know and never forget. She wants to know why she feels so attracted to someone who is so obsessed with death when she wishes to avoid the subject as much as possible. She's desperate to understand why she feels like she can tell more to Clarke, a woman she's only met, than to Anya, her best friend of many years whom she trusts with her life. She's craving for an answer to the simple question : when has Clarke become more than just a friend in her eyes?

She wants to know why Clarke takes everything she ever thought she knew and destroys it without a second thought.

She wants to know why Clarke transforms her logic to irrational thoughts, why she suddenly feels like the time she has left is not enough, why she suddenly realizes that she might not be as ready as she first thought she was, why the answer to all her questions seems to be related to the blue eyed goddess facing her.

She wants to know why she isn't ready anymore, if she has ever been before or if it was simply an illusion.

She wants to know why Clarke's hand belongs in hers so well and why her lips are inviting hers to a lustful meeting whenever they part. She wants to know where this desire to taste Clarke's mouth come from, why the ache in her chest is no longer only related to her dysfunctional body. She had a plan figured out and now she can't even remember what it started with.

"I want you to realize what everything you just said has in common."

Clarke isn't sure she knows where the conversation is going anymore.

She wants to go back to the stories before it is too late but she realizes, it already is.

"Death is not the end. It is a step on a continuum."

Clarke looks at her like she knows the answer is incomplete and Lexa answers to the unspoken request.

"I have an illness," Lexa admits. "I will die. Not now, but not in the far future either. I have a couple of years. Two, five, eight if I am lucky. I don't know. I have a time bomb in my lungs and we are unable to tell when it will explode. We simply know it won't take more than eight years. It sounds long, eight years. But it's nothing."

The confession makes Clarke feel as if she was the one with a time bomb in her chest, in her heart. She doesn't know why she suddenly feels like her heart has stopped beating. She expected something like it, but never IT.

Her brain processes the information slowly, as if she couldn't quite believe it despite the fact that it is true, that this woman in front of her will most likely not reach her thirty-fifth birthday.

Lexa will die. Everyone dies, Clarke thinks. Everyone hits the end of the road, abruptly and violently or softly and quietly. Everyone ends up in the same situation, no matter what their story is. They don't know when, but they know they will. But not everyone dies so young. And not people who look like Lexa, healthy. And not Lexa.

Not Lexa.

Please.

But Clarke thinks of all the hints she should have paid more attention to and she knows immediately that this isn't a lie. This isn't a play they are practicing. This isn't a stupid test that Lexa wants her to pass in order to judge whether she is a good person.

This is true. And just like most truths, it is ugly, disgusting, vile and poisonous.

"I have LAM lung disease."

LAM.

Lymphangioleiomyomatosis.

Clarke has left med school behind, but she still has an excellent memory of what she learned. She remembers exactly why she hated memorizing the longest words. Not only are they uselessly long, they also are the worst.

An extremely rare and progressive lung disease that makes breathing hard for its victims almost all day long. People living with this madness often suffer from chest pain, fatigue and benign tumors in their lungs and kidneys. A simple slow walk on a flat floor can be enough to tire them. The cure is inexistent partly due to how uncommon the illness is and how unpredictable the side effects of the potential treatments hit. Judging by how often Lexa seems to be out of breath, Clarke concludes that she had received the diagnosis a few years ago already.

A few years ago.

Already.

Tick.

Tock.

"I know about it," Clarke says, sparing Lexa from having to tell her the details.

And that's the problem. Clarke knows too much about it. She knows about its mortal rate, about the inexistence of a cure, about its hold on someone's lungs, about how hopeless its victims feel. She knows about the handicap it truly is to someone's existence. She sees the list of treatments in her mind, like flashes making their way between what is real and what isn't. A short list. Too short and often useless. She understands why Lexa doesn't go out. Lexa can't go out. Lexa is trapped within her house perimeter.

She wishes she didn't know.

She is so thankful for her knowledge.

She feels a bit lost. A bit sad. A big angry. And a whole lot of hurt.

"Don't look at me that way."

Clarke blinks. She hadn't noticed how lost in her thoughts she was.

"What way?"

"Like it is the end of the world."

Clarke feels the irresistible need to answer that yes, it feels like the end of the world so it might as well be. It is the end of the world because Lexa will die and she shouldn't have to, she shouldn't be dying. It is the end of the world because Lexa has no damn reason to be in this situation. It is the end of the world because finally, finally Clarke has met someone she wants to be close to, and she already has to think about a future without that person.

It feels like the end.

She keeps her thoughts inside because Lexa is looking at her like she has no right to fall apart, not now, not ever.

If Clarke shows weakness, Lexa will crumble down.

But Clarke knows she has already shown weakness. She feels it because she still gets goosebumps in her arms from the way her fingers are linked with Lexa's. She feels it because she has memorized every little detail about Lexa. She feels it because she knows the difference between before and now.

Before Lexa, she was an ordinary person with no inspiration and nothing to offer.

But Lexa looks at her like she is someone, like she exists, like she is important.

And Clarke is born again in Lexa's eyes.

Clarke is being taken away from her colorless existence by Lexa.

"Death is not the end," Lexa repeats with a sad smile. "You of all people should know it."

The artist is excellent at metaphors. She has a collection of dictionaries in her head and an encyclopedia on the art of turning the most terrible disaster into something stunning. She makes analogies to explain the hardest concepts and turns the trickiest grammar rules into children's game. She makes the colors rain when gray clouds block someone's view and paints wonders to replace boredom.

She is able to show beauty and wisdom in the subject of death. She is able to reconstruct sorrows into the loudest cheers. She can look into the Grim Reaper's eyes and convince it that Death isn't the only possible outcome. She bargains with the afterlife every single day. She argues with the deceased in her dream and ruminates on the concept of mortality even when she isn't conscious of it.

She gives life to the lifeless, hope for the hopeless.

She helps people forgiving the unforgivable and curing the incurable pain of the soul.

She immortalizes mortality itself.

Who will help her now that she needs help herself?

A few days ago, she truly believed she owned death. She doesn't anymore.

Because if she did own death, she would be able to save Lexa from its grasp rather than watch the other woman find excuses of all sorts.

Because if she truly controlled such a powerful concept, she probably wouldn't exist in this reality.

"Death is not-"

"You don't know that," Clarke whispers, interrupting Lexa from saying it once more.

"I believe."

"It's not enough."

"It is."

Clarke wishes she could believe. She wishes believing was as easy as the way Lexa seems to move a bit closer to her, trying to soothe the ache in her heart.

"I write about death. You personify it. I don't like this coincidence."

Her voice is low and broken, shattered and suddenly old. Her tone is the one of a fighter who still wants to throw punches but who doesn't quite know how to start. Just a little over two months ago, she had no idea Lexa even existed. Now she can't imagine a world where Lexa doesn't exist.

"I write about tragedies and I paint about the world's cataclysms, and I seek adversity everywhere I go because it is what I do best, get inspired by death. And I had lost inspiration just a few days before you contacted me. I found it again the second I started talking to you… I found it because what is best to inspire me than the one person living with Damocles' sword over her head?"

Clarke shakes her head in disbelief.

She doesn't know what to do with the information. It flies around her head, making her dizzy and sick. It doesn't want to penetrate her skull. It just keeps gravitating around her like an annoying bug in the middle of the night where all she wants is to sleep forever.

Lexa sees the way Clarke falls. She wants to avoid the crash.

She wonders who will stop Clarke from falling once she is gone. She thinks maybe it isn't her responsibility at all to think about it. After all, the blonde probably has many people to care for her.

Lexa thinks it doesn't matter. She will stop Clarke from crashing to the ground as long as she can.

"Anya, my best friend, do you know what she said when I told her?" Lexa's voice is full of light and acceptance, and Clarke wonders how long it took her to reach this point.

Lexa's shoulder lightly pushes against Clarke's. They sit closer than they ever had before and Clarke's head ends up resting on Lexa's shoulder.

It feels good and incredibly wrong at the same time. It feels like heaven because she wouldn't mind using Lexa's body as her personal pillow for the next decades. It feels horrible because she already knows she won't be able to.

"She ran through the hospital's hallway and yelled 'to war!' until she was kicked out by security."

Clarke can't stop her lips from curving up.

"She did it every time I had an appointment. They can't ban her from a hospital so she only got kicked out every time," Lexa laughs. "She said I would kick this illness' ass because I was the only Commander here."

Clarke looks at the way Lexa smiles, the way she seems incredibly calm about this situation.

She doesn't fail to notice the way her friend coughs a bit too much once she stops laughing.

"She was there when I lost hope. She kept telling me that I could not give up, that I was at war and that I couldn't lose or she would lose too, and she hates losing."

Lexa's smile gets wider and she wonders why she ever thought it would be a good idea to ignore Anya.

Clarke stares in wonder as Lexa turns to her with the brightest look in her eyes, the hope and defeat twirling at the same time in her emerald eyes. She sees all of Lexa's dreams and all of Lexa's lost hopes. She witnesses Lexa's noble attitude despite the situation, the way she stands tall and strong despite the obvious difficulty to take a normal breath.

Clarke thinks nothing, no illness, no situation in this life or the next, will ever be able to steal Lexa's power.

Clarke thinks Lexa could beat storms and walk against the strongest winds because she has the soul of a Commander.

Lexa is the remedy to the world's worst evils.

Lexa is sublime, grandiose, majestic.

Clarke knows now why she suddenly felt like her heart had stopped beating.

She is falling in love with Lexa.

And without a word, without a grand display, without Clarke realizing, Lexa is falling in love too.

* * *

Death is not the end.

Death is not the end _of what?_

Death is a kind of an ending, whether she wants it or not. It is the end of who she is on Earth, of her life as she knows it. It will change her, internally, physically, spiritually, and she has no idea how. Maybe it is all an awful joke and she will be back or simply waiting for Clarke, but maybe not. Maybe she will reincarnate, maybe not. Maybe she will become dust, maybe not.

It used to be simple. One person would die and their body was left to the surface as it was. One man would die and the group would move on, seeking food and safety for the night. One prince would pass and its kingdom would mourn him, bury him, replace him. And somehow, it became more complicated, more important. Somehow, the rituals changed, the feelings mattered more, the concept got heavier, the afterlife became a scary, unknown place.

Somehow, death became unsurmontable, unforgettable, unforgivable.

Somewhere along the way, some civilizations decided that death mattered, that it should be celebrated, while others turned to the fear's side instead. Some people decided to make money out of it. Some people decided to pretend it didn't exist.

Maybe death is just an idea mankind has created to make sure everyone lives their life fully. Lexa thinks this was the worst idea, the one that has failed the most because now, she has so many questions in her mind, so many unanswered interrogations.

Will Clarke be fine?

Will Clarke survive?

Maybe she won't even remember Clarke once she is gone.

And maybe Clarke won't remember her once she is gone.

And that scares her. That petrifies her.

She cannot die because Clarke reminds her so much of what she will leave behind.

For the first time, she isn't so brave in front of the idea of dying and all she wants is to curl herself in a ball and let the tears fall. She thought she was ready, she really did. And perhaps she is. But things are different. She knows Clarke's stories now. She knows Clarke's life. She has shared a bond with the blonde, something that already cannot be unbroken.

She has feelings now.

Feelings complicate everything.

Lexa has been thinking about her core belief since her last meeting with Clarke, only a week ago. She has been living with that simple statement in her mind for so long, going through treatments and tests in this mindset, convincing herself that it would all be fine when she is gone. She has managed to rewire her brain into thinking that she would be fine, that she will survive death. She has managed to go on because she was at peace with her situation.

Granted, she is a miserable prisoner of her body, but she still occupies herself. She still tries. She still fights. She still has reasons to not fall into despair.

Clarke had burst into her life and made a mess, proudly enjoying it.

Lexa doesn't simply want to fight anymore. She wants to win. To dominate. To kill. And she is painfully aware of how unreasonable her demands are. She questions her every decision ever since the Clarke earthquake. She doubts herself, her behavior, her thoughts. She slowly takes the pieces of her apart, one by one, until she is left with a pile she has to build again.

Except she has no plan. She has no idea where which part goes. She has no idea how to build herself in harmony with her illness, with her fate. She feels like an incomplete puzzle despite Clarke bringing all the missing pieces.

And maybe that's the problem.

Clarke is bringing too many pieces that don't fit, that Lexa has no idea where to insert. And the tall woman cannot refuse them. She takes them. She takes them all and asks for more pieces and she doesn't know how to stop. She wants all of them. She needs all of them. She loves all of them. She makes her exist in a world where everyone and everything is ephemeral.

Lexa thinks that if she was one of Clarke's stories, her symbolic death wouldn't be caused by her illness. It would be caused by Clarke's appearance in her life.

Lexa is dying in so many different ways that the pressure on her soul is suffocating her more than her lungs struggle to work efficiently. She is dying and she can't focus on anything else.

She needs to talk. She needs someone by her side. Someone that isn't Clarke, someone she should have never ignored in the first place.

Lexa calls Anya.

Clarke is killing her more than her illness does and Lexa needs help. Clarke cannot be the poison and the antidote at the same time, but Lexa's beating heart tells her otherwise

Lexa waits patiently for Anya's voice to answer and when she hears it, she feels tears escaping her eyes.

Lexa is dying and she wonders if this is what life feels like.

* * *

Clarke is painting.

A small canvas is being splashed with dozens of shades of green as her hands delicately hold the paintbrushes. A song plays as she meticulously chooses the right colors and trace shadows around the main lines. It is Lexa's favorite song. It has been on repeat so many times that Clarke is surprised her computer hasn't been killed by it yet. She knows the lyrics by heart now. They are part of her life, of her soul.

Just like Lexa is.

The lines merged together to form Lexa's silhouette standing under the shadow of a lone tree. Her features are painted with a pale green, contrasting with the aggressive pine color. She is smiling and her eyes are warm and soft. She is breathing freely the fresh oxygen from the umbrella of leaves that protects her from the sun. She is looking at the ground where a single flower appears. The rest of the canvas is completely white. The passage to one shade of green to the other is natural, as if nature itself has drawn the art. The newest creation holds the source of life in its small size.

It is an emerald paradise. The kind of place Clarke knows Lexa would be content to belong to.

She is trying to accept the fact that Lexa will be gone too soon.

She is trying to accept the fact that death always wins in the end, and that she now has proof of it.

Clarke finishes the painting as the silence replaces the familiar melody. A few drops of paint have soiled her white shirt, but she doesn't care. It is worth it. She would make all her clothes dirty without hesitation if she could just manage to paint the one perfect representation of Lexa.

She is trying to remember.

She is trying to remember everything about Lexa. Her voice, the color of her eyes, the softness of her skin, the wildness of her hair, the irresistible appeal of her lips. The way she subtly narrows her eyes when she hears something she doesn't agree with. The way she nods instead of talking. The way her voice slightly raises when she wants to defend her point. The way she smiles almost invisibly when she thinks something is funny.

The way she chases oxygen without ever being able to catch it when they have too much fun, and the way it shatters Clarke's heart a little every time.

The way she flirts with both life and death, without ever settling on one of them.

The way she seems to have chosen Clarke instead.

The way she exists within Clarke.

She is trying to remember the way Lexa looks without having to actively seek a picture.

She realizes she has none. She can only count on her memory and this thought makes her tear up. She wants to cry but she has no energy to let the tears fall. She signs a single 'C' at the bottom of the canvas.

She doesn't know why she feels such despair when she thinks of losing Lexa. She blames it on friendship. She blames it on the incontestable fact that she is falling for Lexa. She blames it on death, the one subject that has been haunting her since she was born. The main subject of inspiration for most of her work.

Death is her best friend and her worse enemy.

She misses Lexa. The drawing can't replace her. It never will.

Clarke glances at the other five paintings lined up against her wall. They all portray Lexa in different situations, in a different states of mind. None of them can fill the void left by Lexa's absence. Her favorite one is one she imagined and created entirely. Lexa is sleeping. Her eyes are closed and her face is no longer hurt by the truth. She looks like the definition of peace itself.

Clarke sighs. She won't fight the inevitable but she wishes she could do something to help. She curses the world for allowing someone like Lexa to disappear this way, hidden within the shadows of her house, quietly, quickly.

She wants Lexa to be remembered and she isn't sure if she can, with her sole memory, be enough for it to happen. Is her knowledge of Lexa enough to cover everything? Is her memory enough to illustrate the incredible wonder that is Lexa? She wants to remember Lexa, but she is sure her own thoughts cannot even start to grasp how amazing that woman is, how precious she is to this world.

She has so much she wants to remember, so much she wants to share, so much she wants to hold close.

She needs her soul to be enough to hold Lexa's soul as well.

Will her memory be enough once Lexa is gone?

She shakes her head hopelessly. She is convinced that the answer is negative. All she is doing right now, painting the diverse faces of the woman she has become attracted to, is trying to immortalize her, but without ever succeeding.

She's falling in love a bit more everyday.

She closes the lights of her studio, exhaustion taking over her body. She needs to sleep a hundred years and wake up when Lexa is born again and old enough to be hers.

She walks to her bedroom and surprisingly notices the light has stayed on. She has lost track of time. She hadn't expected to paint all night. She turns off the lights and buries her head in her pillow. The position is uncomfortable. It makes her neck hurt and she instantly misses Lexa's shoulder. She forces herself not to cry.

Her heart aches and her lungs feel full of air that doesn't want to escape. Her chest is heavy and painful, and it hurts to breathe, and she wonders if this is how Lexa feels every second of every day. She feels her body trembling under her blanket and she shivers. She feels cold. She feels warm. She feels lost. She feels sick and she doesn't know how to get better. Her thoughts are forming a storm under her skull and she already fears the killer headache.

She turns around and faces the ceiling.

She is falling deeper than ever.

The glowing stars illuminate her view for the first time in forever.

Clarke is living and she wonders if this is what death feels like.

* * *

Five times.

That's the amount of times Clarke has been at Lexa's place.

She knows everything about it. She knows how to avoid the cat, his toy, his blanket, his bed. She didn't trip on anything related to him the last time she went there and she was so proud and excited that she ended up colliding with the wall instead.

She doesn't know yet that Lexa will get another cat later and this whole scenario will happen again.

She doesn't know yet that those two cats will become hers and that she will love them just as much as Lexa does.

Today, she won't trip. She won't even go into Lexa's house. Today is different. She wants to offer Lexa something. She waits until the door opens and when it does, when she stops being starstruck by Lexa's beauty, she gestures to her car shyly. She doesn't want to push Lexa, but she can't help asking. Lexa has mentioned a certain park too many times for Clarke to avoid it.

Lexa's eyes cloud with fear the moment she realizes what Clarke wants. The simple act of climbing down the stairs will wear her down. She will need to stop at the bottom. She will need to catch her breath for a few minutes before she can walk to Clarke's car. And once in Clarke's car, she will open the door and sit, and ask the blonde to wait before they leave. Because being in a car excites her. It has been too long. Every little bump on the road makes her heart race a bit too fast, makes her breath catch in her chest.

Wherever they go, Lexa will slow them down by needing to sit every few minutes. Whatever they do, Lexa feels like she will ruin it.

But Clarke is looking at her like she can wait forever and Lexa can't refuse.

She climbs down the stairs and sits at the bottom as Clarke patiently waits. She asks for Clarke to wait before driving away and the blonde patiently does as she is told.

Clarke holds Lexa's hand as she drives, sensing her increasing heartbeat and slowing down the car when she feels it goes too fast.

Clarke doesn't feel like the wait is endless anymore. Every second spent with Lexa next to her is the most precious one.

They arrive at the park and Lexa marvels at the sight of her favorite place. It has been so long that the mere sight is enough to make her eyes wet. She isn't sure if it is the park itself or the fact that Clarke remembered, noticed, that makes her want to cry.

It is an ordinary park. A small hill, a small playground, a few trees and a few benches.

It is the most beautiful park to Lexa because it is where she has always played when she was younger, when she was healthy enough to run until her legs could no longer support her weight. It is where her best memories are, and Clarke's presence by her side proves it once again.

Clarke is gentle. She walks slowly, her arm linked to Lexa's, letting the other woman guide their pace. She feels the way the ground isn't flat under their feet and helps Lexa whenever she can. She knows Lexa would refuse any help, if she flats out offered.

She also knows how to convince Lexa to accept her help. She walks closer, so close that her whole body almost presses against Lexa's. She walks so close that Lexa unconsciously leans on her, saving her energy.

They stop as frequently as Lexa needs to and Clarke doesn't once complain about it. She has never complained and she never will. She will become a turtle if it makes Lexa feels better about herself. She will turn into a snail if it makes Lexa laugh.

This time, she has packed a lunch. She owes Lexa five meals. She better starts soon if she wants to repay her debt.

They sit at a table and Lexa immediately puts her head down, concentrating on her breathing. Clarke doesn't ask questions. She never has and she never will. She knows Lexa knows she is here if she needs to talk. She knows Lexa will talk to her, just like she knows she can talk to Lexa about anything.

They have learned to trust each other over the past months, adopting each other's vulnerabilities like their own, adding each other forces to their own. Clarke notices when Lexa needs time. Lexa doesn't feel guilty anymore to ask for it.

Lexa looks at Clarke with something in her eyes, like she has something to say but she doesn't know how.

"Thank you," Lexa says as she regains her energy.

Clarke nods absently. She looks at Lexa as if it is the first time she truly saw her, in the true light of the day, the sun shining over their head and a light wind making a mess of Lexa's hair. She wonders if it is normal for a person to look so incredibly perfect while being so impossibly broken inside. She wants Lexa to live.

"I'm not a great cook," the blonde mutters as Lexa takes bites of the homemade pizza.

Lexa wants to answer that Clarke could cook something she loathes and she would still pretend to like it.

"It tastes good, Clarke."

And it isn't a lie. Lexa doesn't think she will ever need to lie to Clarke. She doesn't want to. And even if she did, Clarke knows her too well already to believe her. Clarke knows her too well, but not well enough to rewrite history yet. The blonde thinks she won't ever have to rewrite history because Lexa will do it herself. Lexa has it in her to rewrite the universe's laws.

They eat in silence, Lexa taking mental pictures of everything she sees, of every scent that crosses their way, of every sound she hears. She loves the park and she already misses it. She already misses it because she knows she will leave and probably spend a long time away from it again. She misses it because this park is her home. She forgot that she told Clarke all about it and the artist has no intention of ever forgetting.

She doesn't know yet that Clarke will bring her to this park as many times as possible.

"Tell me a story?"

It has become a habit. They meet, they talk about nothing and everything, about the way they missed each other without ever saying the direct words, they eat and then, when they are convinced that none of this is a dream, that they truly are together, Lexa asks for a story.

It is always the same scenario between them and they never get tired of it. They never ask for something else. They are content with the way they are. They fear that if they ask for something different, Lexa's situation will worsen.

They don't know yet that they will end up asking for something different and it will come in the form of a ring.

Today is different. Today, Clarke isn't sure what story she wants to tell. Or maybe it is the opposite. Maybe it is that she is so sure of the words she wants to say that they inevitably stay stuck in her throat. She knows it will take a long time before she can get the right sentences out.

But Lexa is looking at her like she can wait forever and Clarke finds herself speaking before she even has the time to think about how she wants to formulate the tale in her mind.

"I always talk about death," Clarke says thoughtfully.

Lexa nods. She doesn't know what to expect when she asks Clarke to share her creativity, but she always retrieves the same theme under the layers of words.

"Does it bother you?"

Lexa shakes her head. It doesn't bother her. It is why she felt connected to Clarke in the first place.

"I don't want to talk about death anymore. This is my final story."

Lexa waits.

The wait is not endless anymore for her either.

"It is the story of an extraordinary woman who believed wrongly that she was ordinary, that nothing made her special."

Clarke knows where the story will go before she even finishes her first sentence and Lexa hears the echoes of the final words rushing to her.

"It is the story of a woman who was dying to live again."

Clarke doesn't look at Lexa as she speaks, as she creates magic with her voice.

"She changed me. She took me, an uninspired aspiring writer, dreamer of lost worlds, and shook me. She took the subject I thought I knew most about and proved me wrong. She is dying and she showed me how to live. She taught me how to live without dying."

Clarke feels Lexa's burning look on her. She forces herself to keep looking at the green horizon. She can hear the children playing in the distance and she longs for her earliest days, when she wasn't scarred by too many tragedies.

"She is broken, but she fixed everything that was wrong with my perceptions. She is tired, but she kept me up awake all night with her simple existence. She is sick, but she is the remedy to my disease. She can't breathe properly, but she is the air I needed to survive without even knowing it."

Clarke tries to stop, but she can't. Even if she tries, she can't. Even if she wants to, she can't.

Lexa is the inspiration. The perfect inspiration. And she will be gone soon and Clarke is fighting to keep that thought out of her mind.

"She has the forest in her eyes and she wears the mountains on her shoulders. She walks as slowly as the gentlest wave reaching the shore and she is as wild as the strongest hurricane. She cannot push a door open without struggling, but she has the power to move people, to disrupt their innate harmony. She is a prisoner of her castle, but she had visited a hundred different lands by closing her eyes and using her imagination. She is a queen thinking she is a servant. She is a Commander thinking she is powerless. She is a soft melody and an anarchic riot."

Clarke looks at Lexa.

The artist flinches under the intensity of their exchange.

"She is the strongest person I know."

Clarke smiles sadly.

"She doesn't want to die. She told me once she was ready. And then she told me she wasn't, that she didn't want to die."

Clarke smirks.

"She is a fool. She won't die."

She winks at Lexa playfully, trying to make the atmosphere lighter, but she knows it is just that, a try.

"She won't die because she will defeat death."

Clarke swallows the pain.

"She will succumb to death, but she will still defeat it."

Lexa knows the words before Clarke even says them.

Clarke can't stop.

"She will defeat it because she will remain alive to me. I won't let her die."

Clarke simply can't stop.

"She doesn't know that I need her. I need her more than the words, the prose, the colors. I need more than the pen, the parchment, the paint. I don't need any materials. I don't need her to be anything else, anyone other than who the is."

Clarke was wrong. Death doesn't always win. Death loses too. Even when the battle seems lost in advance, even when the forces of nature are completely unbalanced, even when nothing seems fair anymore, something happens and turns everything upside down.

And Lexa was right. Death truly isn't the end. Death won't triumph over love. Death won't win over the raw feelings they are experiencing right now, the fire that is burning inside their soul, the emotions bursting in their chest.

"She is invincible. She is immortal. She made me fall in love with her without even trying."

Clarke cannot stop staring at Lexa's lips.

"She is immortal because as long as I exist, as long as the world exists, I won't let her story be forgotten."

Death is not the end of the world as they know it. Love is.

They both are well aware of it.

"I'm sorry," Lexa whispers.

For leaving.

For being sick.

For dying too soon and loving too much.

Even if she can't control anything at all, Lexa feels that she owes Clarke something to make it easier.

The words are barely audible, but they tear Clarke's heart. Lexa has nothing to apologize for. Death should be the one bowing in front of them, crawling and pleading for their forgiveness and begging for their mercy.

Lexa can only hope that Clarke will overcome this, that she will move on and forgive their tragic story. That she will forgive life for being so unfair and cruel. That she will forgive death for knocking at their door a bit too soon, always too soon. That she will forgive love for hurting too much. That she will forgive herself for not being able to save her loved one.

Lexa wants to give forgiveness to Clarke, but she remains quiet. Words are useless if Clarke doesn't believe them.

"Don't be."

Clarke really wants to kiss Lexa.

She doesn't know yet that she will want to kiss Lexa again.

And again.

And again.

And she does it the second she sees Lexa's eyes moving to her lips.

She feels the way Lexa struggles to breathe and she isn't sure if it is related to the intense moment they are having or if it is because of her illness. She stops leaning in because she fears Lexa might be having a crisis.

She doesn't know yet that Lexa isn't having a crisis. She doesn't know yet that she will have five more years to learn to tell the difference between a crisis and lust.

Lexa isn't having a crisis. Lexa is impatient. Lexa is frustrated because Clarke has stopped moving and their lips aren't touching yet. It frustrates her as much as her illness' existence. She uses as much energy as she can to pass her hand behind Clarke's neck and pull the blonde closer. Impossibly closer.

And when their lips finally collide, they both somehow die at the same time. They both shiver from the energy that passes through them. They both stop moving in fear that this perfect moment will be interrupted.

It takes one second for them to move again.

Lexa presses her lips to Clarke's. They stop dying and they are born again. Clarke answers the kiss as softly as she possibly can, not rushing the delicateness of it. She wants to feel everything. She wants to feel every cell of her body being reborn under Lexa's influence. Their breaths mix and the intensity increases exponentially.

Lexa wants Clarke to understand that she isn't fragile. She doesn't need to be spared of the maelstrom of emotions just because she has a hard time breathing. She doesn't want to miss on anything that involves Clarke. Even if it means being on the edge of dying. Even if it means suffocating too many times. Even if it means risking it all, she doesn't want to miss anything. Clarke is worth it.

She opens her mouth just a little and waits for Clarke's reaction. She feels Clarke's body pressing harder on hers as the tingles in her body are setting it on fire. She moans when she feels Clarke's tongue brushing against her and the vibrations make the blonde seek more, asks for more, begs for more. Her hand is tangled in brown hair and she wants it to stay forever there.

They explore each other and their senses are overwhelmed as their neurons desperately try to keep the signals going. But there are too many connections, too many sparks, too many lightning bolts striking them at the same time.

Clarke tastes like the life Lexa so badly needs. The taller woman increases the pace and their noses bump against one another, making them smile in the kiss.

It is delicate and rough, tender and violent, frail and unbreakable, chaste and passionate.

Clarke is in love with Lexa.

Lexa is in love with Clarke.

They have no idea yet that they will fall in love with one another a million times, in a million different ways.

* * *

Clarke is old.

Her art gallery has been growing with new paintings every month and the money flows into her bank account. She lives the perfect life of a popular independent artist, sipping coffee to stay awake all night to create, sleeping in most of the time just because she wants to, listening to random artists she discovers online.

She has a girlfriend. She is in love. It is a wild intense love, special even, but fundamentally different from her past feelings. She has accepted she would never feel the same again.

She has focused on drawing for years, perfecting her technique, flying closer to excellence, neglecting the other spheres of the artistic life. She lost herself into the world of colors until ten years ago. Until the nagging feeling in her chest couldn't be ignored anymore. Until it was eating her alive and she had to do something to stay alive.

She remembers a bit less every year, but she still remembers.

Ten years.

That's how long it has taken her to secretly write a little paragraph every day, to note the most important aspects of her story, to translate her most terrible thoughts into words. It had taken her months to be able to sit in front of a computer and write without being blinded by tears.

Her first draft was thrown away as soon as it had been done. It was terrible. It was nothing like what she wanted to create. It was garbage, an abomination, a travesty. It didn't convey enough of her feelings. It didn't do justice to her real life inspiration. It didn't even come close to her. It was a bunch of words packed together in a failed attempt to represent a part of her past. It had taken her way too long to accept that nothing she could ever write would equal the real person behind the story.

She spent countless nights being tossed between dreams and nightmares, being attacked by memories and voices and touches, being haunted by everything she has spent so long to remember. She finally found peace when she was about to give up, when she woke up and didn't feel like she was falling apart anymore.

One day, she was able to pronounce Lexa's name again.

One day, she sat in front of her computer and wrote many pages without the need to delete all of them at the end.

One day, she had a relapse and threw her laptop against the wall.

One day, she finished the first chapter.

One day, she wrote the last sentence and finished the whole story.

" _May we meet again."_

One day, time had done its job.

One day, Lexa's favorite song didn't make her break down anymore.

One day, she found out she was in love with someone else.

She had cried. All day. Raven hadn't been able to stop the tears despite her efforts.

Clarke had accepted the fact that moving on did mean forgetting, did not mean she didn't love her past lover anymore. She had accepted that it was time for her to stop dying, to take a step forward again.

Death is not the end of life, of love.

Love triumphs over death.

Love remains after death. It doesn't disappear. It doesn't vanish as if it hadn't existed. It doesn't become any less strong. It doesn't stop feeling good and it doesn't stop hurting. It doesn't change in its pure form. It doesn't become something else. Love lives on, eternally, surviving each and every death one goes through.

Clarke has received a package today. A single rectangular package wrapped carefully. The result of ten years of struggle, of war against herself, of ugly crying and false smiles, of drowning her sanity in alcohol when the sun was nowhere to be seen. It is the result of ten years of trying to move on until she had realized she would never be able to move on the way she intended to.

It is the first exemplary of the only book she will ever write. She wants to translate it. She wants everyone to know, everyone to remember.

She will open the book. She will read. She will laugh. She will cry.

She will fall in love again. She will have her heart broken again.

She will die a little. She will live a little.

She will remember.

The title shocks her soul when she finally discards the paper protecting her last story.

L.A.M.

Lexa, A Miracle.

* * *

 **The end.**


End file.
